president couldn’t hide their worry.
“The bureau is checking hotel reservations across the country and his travel itinerary.”
After a long silence, Taylor took his seat in the Halsey chair across from his advisors. They picked up the conversation where they left off, but Taylor had only one thought right now. Another Goddamned K-PAN.
Gulfton, Texas
“I’ll make this easy for you all to understand,” the Salvadorian gang leader shouted. “You lose something of mine, I take something of yours.”
Miguel Vega tried one more time to explain what happened; what he heard on the news.
“I don’t listen to the fucking radio,” Estavan shouted back. “I listen to the sound of money. And because of you, I don’t hear enough.” Without another word he picked up a leather sheath on the table between the two men and drew his Gil Hibben III Combat Machete.
The loss was tangible for 13-30. And so it would be for Miguel Vega.
For each sleeper smuggled into the United States, the gang could take in ten-to-thirty-five thousand dollars. Upon successful delivery to remote locations across state lines, there’d be a bonus. Easy money.
Expecting no problems, and with the advances already wired, Estavan had shelled out cash for a late-model used car. Now he figured he’d have to refund the full down-payment or apply it against the next “package” to come through…if there were another. Either way, he was not happy. Proof was the fact that he called all forty gang members together.
“Hand on the table!”
Thank God. Only my hand. “Which?” Vega cried in thanks.
“Whatever one you don’t need to jerk off.”
Miguel Vega began to cry. He suddenly looked more innocent than he had in years. He placed his left hand on the wooden table.
“Flatter!”
Vega never wanted to join this cruel branch of MS-13. He had plans of leaving the horrors of the Houston ghetto. His natural ability at the computer keyboard was going to be his ticket out. But no longer. He had his cousin to thank.
“Look at me, asshole! Eyes forward.”
Vega complied.
“Do you have anything to say?”
Why even try. Vega had seen how Estavan dispensed justice. It would only make Estavan angrier. “No.”
The MS-13-30 gang members quietly realized it could have been one of them facing Estavan’s 15.5-inch blade. It was merely good luck that spared them this time.
Estavan raised his machete, the principal weapon of the Maras. He swept it across the young man’s face. One cut. A mark for life, but not anywhere near the true punishment for the crime. In a lightning-swift move the blade came down on the tip of three fingers. Only his thumb and pinky were sparred. The gang leader smiled at his work and with a nod. A lieutenant tossed Vega a towel.
“Now go and lick your wounds!” he ordered. “The rest of you remember the price for failing.”
“Everyone out! Now!” Estavan’s lessons worked. Everyone obeyed him. He’d never read Machiavelli, but he was an apt student of the sixteenth-century writer. Without knowing history, he ruled his own limited territory much like Lenin or Mao; two men he’d also never heard of. But for dictators it was always the same. It was all about fear. Estavan led, not through cunning or intellect, but because he instilled more fear than anyone else. His own spies insured that there were no secrets he didn’t hear. And his bloody machete? Once again it put fire in his men’s bellies to do unmitigated harm to others.
As Vega rushed out of the front door of the run-down apartment building in the center of gang territory, he couldn’t possibly have known that he actually owed his life to the man who lay dead on the airport floor.
Six
The White House
Later
“J3, I want you here for my little talk with Hernandez,” the president said.
Talk wasn’t the right word. But General Jonas Jackson Johnson understood the nuance. Talk was warning. Morgan Taylor was advancing the field of play on the basis of
“The bureau is checking hotel reservations across the country and his travel itinerary.”
After a long silence, Taylor took his seat in the Halsey chair across from his advisors. They picked up the conversation where they left off, but Taylor had only one thought right now. Another Goddamned K-PAN.
Gulfton, Texas
“I’ll make this easy for you all to understand,” the Salvadorian gang leader shouted. “You lose something of mine, I take something of yours.”
Miguel Vega tried one more time to explain what happened; what he heard on the news.
“I don’t listen to the fucking radio,” Estavan shouted back. “I listen to the sound of money. And because of you, I don’t hear enough.” Without another word he picked up a leather sheath on the table between the two men and drew his Gil Hibben III Combat Machete.
The loss was tangible for 13-30. And so it would be for Miguel Vega.
For each sleeper smuggled into the United States, the gang could take in ten-to-thirty-five thousand dollars. Upon successful delivery to remote locations across state lines, there’d be a bonus. Easy money.
Expecting no problems, and with the advances already wired, Estavan had shelled out cash for a late-model used car. Now he figured he’d have to refund the full down-payment or apply it against the next “package” to come through…if there were another. Either way, he was not happy. Proof was the fact that he called all forty gang members together.
“Hand on the table!”
Thank God. Only my hand. “Which?” Vega cried in thanks.
“Whatever one you don’t need to jerk off.”
Miguel Vega began to cry. He suddenly looked more innocent than he had in years. He placed his left hand on the wooden table.
“Flatter!”
Vega never wanted to join this cruel branch of MS-13. He had plans of leaving the horrors of the Houston ghetto. His natural ability at the computer keyboard was going to be his ticket out. But no longer. He had his cousin to thank.
“Look at me, asshole! Eyes forward.”
Vega complied.
“Do you have anything to say?”
Why even try. Vega had seen how Estavan dispensed justice. It would only make Estavan angrier. “No.”
The MS-13-30 gang members quietly realized it could have been one of them facing Estavan’s 15.5-inch blade. It was merely good luck that spared them this time.
Estavan raised his machete, the principal weapon of the Maras. He swept it across the young man’s face. One cut. A mark for life, but not anywhere near the true punishment for the crime. In a lightning-swift move the blade came down on the tip of three fingers. Only his thumb and pinky were sparred. The gang leader smiled at his work and with a nod. A lieutenant tossed Vega a towel.
“Now go and lick your wounds!” he ordered. “The rest of you remember the price for failing.”
“Everyone out! Now!” Estavan’s lessons worked. Everyone obeyed him. He’d never read Machiavelli, but he was an apt student of the sixteenth-century writer. Without knowing history, he ruled his own limited territory much like Lenin or Mao; two men he’d also never heard of. But for dictators it was always the same. It was all about fear. Estavan led, not through cunning or intellect, but because he instilled more fear than anyone else. His own spies insured that there were no secrets he didn’t hear. And his bloody machete? Once again it put fire in his men’s bellies to do unmitigated harm to others.
As Vega rushed out of the front door of the run-down apartment building in the center of gang territory, he couldn’t possibly have known that he actually owed his life to the man who lay dead on the airport floor.
Six
The White House
Later
“J3, I want you here for my little talk with Hernandez,” the president said.
Talk wasn’t the right word. But General Jonas Jackson Johnson understood the nuance. Talk was warning. Morgan Taylor was advancing the field of play on the basis of
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